uc- 


POEMS 


POEMS 


BY 


WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

re#$  Cambrib0e 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,    BY   WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  April  1914 


350) 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


304233 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,   BY  WALTER  CONRAD  ARENSBERG 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  April  iqi4 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


304233 


CONTENTS 

To  ONE  WHO  READS .  I 

IN  MEMORY  OF  F.  C.  G ,    ,  .        .  3 

A  Vow      ..........  6 

To  LITTLE  M.  A.  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY      .        .        .        .  8 

JARDIN  DU  LUXEMBOURG  .        .        •     .   •        ,        •        .  12 

AVENUE  DE  L'OPERA         .        .        „  .       .        .        .        .  13 

ON  THE  TRAIN          .        .        .        .        ,        *        ,        .  15 

THE  MOONS  OF  ALL  TIME        .        .        .        .        .        .  16 

A  FOUNTAIN  AT  FRASCATI        .        .        .        ,        .        .  17 

SERENADE .18 

NIGHT 19 

AMONG  THE  FIELDS 21 

To  A  SKYLARK  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA  .        .        .        .  23 

A  POPPY 25 

ECLOGUE 27 

EXPECTANCY 29 

A  BALLADE  TO  MY  LADY  MOONLIGHT      ....  30 

UNTIL  TO-MORROW 32 

ROMANTICISM 33 


A  PRAYER 35 

DREAM-TRYST 36 

ABOVE  THE  SEA 37 

NIGHT  SONG      .    ' 39 

INTERIOR 40 

THE  RETURN    .        . 42 

VENUS  OF  MELOS 43 

AUTUMN  WIND          .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .44 

QUEST 45 

CONFIDENCES     . 47 

MY  LADY'S  TOMB 48 

WEARINESS  * 49 

FOR  A  PICTURE  BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI         ...      50 

SLUMBER  SONG 52 

CHRYSEIS  .        .        *     '  *        ." 53 

THE  WILD  ROSE 55 

DURING  Music         i 56 

SEAWARD •  .        .        .58 

NOCTURNE 59 

THE  GRAVE 60 

SONNETS 

TIME'S  LOSSES  I 61 

TIME'S  LOSSES  II 62 

ON  A  MACEDONIAN  TOMB     .        .        .        .        .        .63 

THE  END  OF  THE  STORY       .        .        .     ,  .        .        .64 


AT  PARTING  .        .        .        .        .    ~~  .        .        .        .65 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY 66 

"  Music  TO  HEAR  "  .        .        .        .        .67 

FOR  A  PICTURE  OF  A  SAINT 68 

To  ONE  WHOSE  LOVE  WAS  SERVICE     ....      69 

A  FACE 70 

THE  PIETA  OF  MICHEL  ANGELO  .        .        .        .        .71 

ATALANTA 72 

IN  THE  HOME  OF  LIFE 73 

WHEN  I  AM  OLD 74 

THE  NIGHTINGALES 75 

QUATRAINS 

THE  POET -•    .    •    .      76 

THE  MASTERPIECE 77 

YOUTH .78 

TIME'  IN  A  GARDEN       .        .        .        .....      79 

THE  RHONE  AT  AVIGNON 80 

ON  A  CERTAIN  IRREGULARITY  .  ...  "  .  '  .  81 
To  A  DESERTED  LITTER  OF  PUPPIES  ....  82 
To  A  GOADED  SHEEP  .  .  .  .  .  \  .  *  .  83 

A  FRANCISCAN       . 84 

TRIBUTE         . 85 

OUT  OF  DOORS      .   T    .        . 86 

ABOUT  AN  ALLEGORY 87 

TRISTAN  AND  ISEULT  OF  THE  WHITE  HANDS  ...      88 


TRANSLATIONS 

SONNET.    From  Ronsard     .        .        .        .        .        .  95 

SONNET.    From  Du  Bellay          .        .                 .        .  .96 

UPON  A  DEAD  WOMAN.    From  De  Mussel         .        .  97 

MEDITATION.    From  Baudelaire          .                 .        .  99 

COMPLAINT  OF  LORD  PIERROT.     From  Jules  Laforgue  .     100 

CONCEITS.    From  Jules  Laforgue        .        .    •     .        .  .102 

SEA  WIND.    From  Mallarme      .        .        .        .         .  .104 

WHAT  SILK  IN  SCENTS.    From  Mallarme  .        .        .  .105 

MUSETTE.    From  Murger   ....'»        .        .        .  .106 

AFTER  THREE  YEARS.    From  Verlaine      .        .        .  .109 

NEVERMORE.    From  Verlaine     .        .        .        .        .  .no 

MY  FAMILIAR  DREAM.    From  Verlaine     .        .        .  .in 

LANGUOR.    From  Verlaine 112 

OH  HEAVY,  HEAVY  WAS  MY  MIND.    From  Verlaine  .  .     113 

CYDALISES.    From  Gerard  de  Nerval 115 

DELPHICA.    From  Gerard  de  Nerval    .        .        .        .  .116 

MIGNON'S  SONG.    From  Goethe  .        ,        .        .      -  »  .     117 
SONG.    From  Heine    .        .        .        .        .        ...     119 

To  ZANTE.    From  Ugo  Foscolo  .        .        .        .  *    ,  .120 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BROTHER.    From  Ugo  Foscolo     »  ,    121 


POEMS 


POEMS 

TO    ONE   WHO   READS 

WHAT  is  it,  that  with  all  thy  tears 

Thou  weep'st  that  loss  of  Guinevere's, 

When  she  who  lay  with  Lancelot 

Lies  now  with  Death  and  knows  it  not  ? 

What  is  it  that  for  Helen  won 

Away  from  withered  Ilion 

Thou  weep'st  when  thirty  centuries 

Have  taken  her  love  and  given  peace  ? 

What  is  it  when  on  windy  wings 

Into  thine  eyes  Francesca  brings, 

As  to  her  Ark  from  Dante's  book, 

Dove-like,  so  faint,  so  far  a  look  ? 

What  is  it  ?  Ah,  it  is  the  thing, 

Yea,  this  alone,  for  which  did  sing 

The  poet  who  for  Beatrice 

In  death  could  do  no  more  than  this : 


To  make  thee  weep  and  so  let  live 
The  spirits  who  are  fugitive 
From  the  old  life  eternally 
A  while  within  the  heart  of  thee. 


IN   MEMORY   OF  F.  C.  G, 

EAGER  and  unaware 
Of  the  obscure  descent, 
Singing  a  song  he  went 
Down  the  long  lonely  stair 

That  builds  upon  the  sands 
Whence  no  man's  eyes  divine 
The  void  of  the  sea-line 
Broken  by  other  lands. 

The  songs  he  used  to  sing, 
First  heard  them  he  alone 
As  some  sad  undertone 
Of  daylight  darkening, 

As  some  unquiet  breath 
Of  life  that  swept  among 
The  fragile  rushes  sprung 
In  sudden  waves  of  death. 

[     3     ] 


Passionate  little  tunes, 
That  bore  on  changing  streams 
The  sailing  of  his  dreams, 
Under  the  suns  and  moons 

Of  all  his  human  moods, 
Still  in  your  silver  flow 
His  visions  come  and  go, 
And  his  brief  passion  broods. 

So  soon  his  years  went  by, 
He  sang,  and  ceased  to  sing, 
The  while  his  years  were  spring, 
He  had  no  time  to  die  — 

No  time  upon  the  quest 
Of  all  the  fervor  furled 
In  the  unopened  world, 
No  time,  no  time  for  rest. 

He  sought  the  shapes  of  sense 
As  seeks  the  worshipper 
Mystically  the  myrrh 
And  holy  frankincense, 

[    4     ] 


For  forms  that  wing  the  air 
Toward  the  diviner  things, 
And  lift  upon  their  wings 
A  voice  of  burning  prayer. 

Wherefore  a  long  regret, 
However  he  be  blest 
In  the  far  fields  of  rest, 
Will  hunt  and  haunt  him  yet, 

His  mutilated  day, 
And  the  malign  caprice 
That  bade  his  being  cease 
Midway  upon  the  way, 

Ere  in  one  wide  control 
Of  mood  and  intellect 
He  well  might  reerect 
His  world  a  perfect  whole, 

Ere  in  the  crucible 
Of  passion  he  might  fuse, 
Pure  for  his  spirit's  use, 
The  world  that  he  loved  well. 
[     5     ] 


A   VOW 

ALL  the  night  till  day  be  born 
Like  a  flower  upon  a  thorn, 
Like  a  moon  upon  a  lake, 
Like  the  eyes  that  you  awake, 
I  will  watch  for  your  sweet  sake  ! 

All  the  day  till  night  shall  rise 
Like  a  blindness  on  the  skies, 
Like  the  ice  upon  the  brook, 
Like  a  death  in  some  sad  book, 
Like  Leander's  drowning  look, 

I  will  hide  you  in  a  hollow 
Where  the  years  alone  may  follow ; 
In  the  heart  of  such  a  land 
That  the  seas  shall  have  to  stand 
At  the  circle  of  its  strand ; 


In  the  inner  heart  of  me 
I  will  keep  you  utterly  j 
Kinder  than  the  love  of  brothers, 
Kinder,  crueller  than  a  mother's, 
In  a  love  that  brooks  no  others ! 

There  shall  need  no  other  face 
For  the  flowering  of  that  place, 
There  shall  need  no  other  glass 

D 

For  the  sands  of  time  to  pass, 
There  shall  be  but  one  Alas, — 

Be  it  only  that  you  stay 
All  the  night  and  all  the  day, 
Be  it  only  that  you  cling 
Closer  till  you  lift  a  wing 
For  the  final  fluttering. 


TO  LITTLE  M.  A.  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 

BABY  born 
On  a  morn, 

With  a  weeping 
And  a  sleeping 

First  you  tested 
Life,  and  rested. 

So  the  trial 
Broke  the  vial 

Where  the  years 
Keep  their  tears  ! 

And  you  learn 
Where  to  turn  — 

Life  is  best 
On  a  breast ! 


Just  the  blossom 
Of  a  bosom, 

Just  the  mouth 
Of  a  drouth, 

Just  the  I 
Of  a  cry, 

Little  baby, 
Not  a  May-be 

Or  a  Never 
In  Forever 

Lights  your  way 
From  to-day  ! 

Not  a  suture 
Knits  the  future 

To  a  past 
All  unglassed 

[     9     ] 


In  the  skies 
Of  your  eyes! 

Thoughtless  brow, 
Is  the  Now, 

Is  the  Real 
Your  Ideal  — 

Just  to  be 
Momently  ? 

Or  have  you 
Something  new 

Still  to  fashion 
Out  of  passion  ? 

From  a  mother's 
To  another's 

Bosom  laid, 
Unafraid, 


Will  you  give 
Leave  to  live, 

Ere  you  go  — 
From  the  throe 

Out  of  breath  — 
Back  to  death  ? 


JARDIN   DU   LUXEMBOURG 

WINTER  wind  in  autumn  blows ; 
Autumn  days  are  grown  too  chilly 
For  Godivas  of  the  rose 
Or  the  raiment  of  the  lily. 

Rouged  —  and  not  so  very  well  — 
Come  the  dahlias  now  to  harden 
All  the  soft  and  true  pastel 
Of  the  once  ungathered  garden. 

Even  the  nursery  maids  have  flown 
From  the  hurricane  that  drenches 
Gods  and  goddesses  in  stone 
And  the  God-forsaken  benches. 

Like  cocottes  along  the  grass, 
Dauntlessly  the  dahlias  hearken 
For  the  steps  that  never  pass 
While  the  hours  of  daytime  darken. 


AVENUE    DE   L'OPERA 

WATCH  her  experimental  bluff 

Of  letting  drop  her  ermine  muff  — 

Chemically,  because  she  waits 

For  masculine  precipitates ; 

Incredulous  and  credulous 

That  she  should  get  the  drop  on  us, 

Apologetic  for  the  ruse, 

As  though  she  might  be  thought  to  use 

A  trick  too  easy  to  be  fair, 

Like  magic  or  a  mere  Lord's  Prayer ! 

But  really,  now,  she  is  too  sweet 

To  flower  upon  the  trodden  street, 

Too  full  of  honey  and  too  frail 

To  flaunt  at  the  deflowering  male, 

Too  full  of  faith  in  what  her  sense 

Knows  better  than  experience, 

Yes,  too  cocksure,  and  still  too  chaste 

To  dream  of  any  aftertaste 

[      -3     ] 


Of  apples  that  are  grown  for  food, 

Of  fruit  God  grew  and  saw  was  good. 

She  lacks,  I  think,  the  brains  to  be 

Accomplice  of  her  Destiny  ; 

And  if  she  has  the  luck  to  find 

A  fellow  who  is  not  unkind, 

She  '11  have  a  laugh  ...   so  never  mind  ! 


[     '4     ] 


ON   THE   TRAIN 

O  GLAD  release  into  the  sea-deep  night ! 
O  swift  and  sure  extinction  of  the  light 
Of  Paris  waning  to  a  starry  dust 
Of  lamps  that  lubricate  its  life  and  lust, 
Of  lamps  that  look  at  what  the  walls  exhume 
Of  the  still  starved  cadavers  of  a  tomb 
That  grudges  even  the  grace  unto  its  dead 
To  let  them  rot  without  the  need  of  bread ! 

The  light  is  out.  O  sad,  O  hopeless  flight 

Into  the  dim,  illimitable  night, 

Into  the  shadowy  hollow  of  the  world  ! 

Fatally  and  impenetrably  furled 

In  Paris  and  the  Past,  the  flowers  of  days 

Are  now  all  trodden  on  those  darkened  ways, 

The  flowers  that  once  were  scattered  in  the  street 

To  pave  it,  ah,  for  what  escaped  feet ! 


THE    MOONS    OF   ALL   TIME 

WHERE  are  the  moons  that  in  all  olden  night 
Have  bloomed  along  the  shoreland  of  the  sky, 
Stately  as  lilies,  single,  still,  and  white, 
Unhastening  to  open  and  to  die  ? 

Where  are  the  moons  upon  what  aimless  flight, 
That  from  their  garden  while  the  wind  is  high 
Another  breaks  and  bubbles  toward  the  height, 
Blown  loose  among  the  stars  that  wander  by  ? 


A   FOUNTAIN   AT   FRASCATI 

THE  drooping  of  the  fountain  to  its  pool, 
A  silver  willow  weeping  in  the  night, 
Is  like  a  wraith  that  haunts  for  lost  delight 
The  mirror  that  it  once  made  beautiful. 

I  hear  the  dropping  moments  in  the  spray  .  , 
The  stealthy  hours  desert  the  solitude, 
Wherein  is  waiting,  waiting  to  be  wooed, 
The  wraith  of  hushed  love  that  passed  away. 


SERENADE 

BE  still,  be  still  —  you  have  dreamed  awhile. 
The  moon  and  the  stars  are  not  for  you, 
And  on  the  face  is  not  the  smile 
That  you  are  whispering  to. 

The  world  is  waiting  at  your  eyes. 
You  sleep  too  long,  awake,  awake  ! 
You  have  been  happy  —  now  be  wise, 
And  watch  the  bubbles  break ! 


NIGHT 

FROM  utter  dark  to  utter 
Dark  on  the  wing, 
The  stars  are  all  a-flutter 
With  westering  ! 

What  wakens  out  of  heaven, 
What  farther  peace, 
Arcturus  and  the  seven 
Pale  Pleiades  ? 

And  slips  the  moon  her  mooring 
From  out  the  bay  .   .   . 
What  in  the  world  is  luring 
The  moon  away  ? 

Horizon  past  horizon, 
Is  there  a  quest  ? 
What  is  the  road  it  lies  on, 
West  beyond  west  ? 

C     >9     ] 


Hollow  above  the  hollow 
Of  star-far  dome, 
What  way  is  there  to  follow 
Home  ? 


AMONG   THE   FIELDS 

ERE  the  day  darken,  dear, 
Ere  the  day  die, 
Bow  down  and  hearken,  dear, 
Out  of  the  sky. 

Lonely  I  wander,  dear, 
Under  the  sun. 
Wilt  thou  be  yonder,  dear, 
When  days  are  done? 

Out  of  the  grave  of  thee 
Up  through  His  portal, 
What  did  God  save  of  thee 
For  the  immortal  ? 

What  hath  He  made  of  thee, 
More  to  be  blest  ? 
What  of  the  braid  of  thee, 
What  of  the  breast  ? 


Oh,  when  I  come  to  thee 
With  the  old  word, 
Will  it  be  dumb  to  thee 
Then,  or  be  heard  ? 

Thou  who  did'st  evenly 
Share  in  the  old, 
Will  it  be  heavenly 
Then  to  withhold  ? 

Spirit  who  bore  to  me 
Love  of  a  woman, 
Be  as  of  yore  to  me 
Heavenly  human  ! 


TO  A  SKYLARK   IN  THE  CAMPAGNA 

THOU  art  so  far, 

Bird  of  the  singing  wings 

Or  singing  star, 

That  by  thy  lightenings 

Of  song  alone 

I  trace  thy  sunny  track 

To  the  Unknown, 

And  I  would  call  thee  back ! 

Come  unto  me, 

And  I  will  build  a  nest 

Of  memory, 

And  I  will  give  thee  rest. 

Yea,  though  thou  roam 
Deathward  with  all  the  world, 
My  heart 's  a  home 
Where  wings  will  not  be  furled, 

[     '3     ] 


A  home  my  heart 

Where  memory  shall  shrine 

The  deathless  part 

Of  this  mad  flight  of  thine  ! 

But  from  my  call 
To  thee  who  art  so  far, 
Bird  that  let'st  fall 
Star  after  falling  star 

Of  voice  afire, 
Still  on  the  flight  begun 
Thou  mountest  higher, 
Up  to  the  endless  sun ! 


A    POPPY 

FLAME  of  the  swooned  heat 
Of  sun-blazed  air, 
Now  burning  in  her  wheat 
Of  golden  hair, 

O  poppy  with  thy  fruit 
Of  dream  and  doom, 
Plucked  for  thy  passionate  mute 
Appeal  of  bloom, 

Has  she  the  power  to  reckon 
Toward  what  wild  ways 
She  lifted  thee  to  beckon 
Above  her  face  ? 

Or  is  it  for  the  red 
Of  just  a  flower 
She  crowns  upon  her  head 
Seductive  power? 


Out  of  her  virgin  trance 
Thy  blood-red  call 
And  languid  petulance 
Are  bacchanal! 


ECLOGUE 

WITHIN  the  woodland  secrecies 
Of  languorous  glades  that  meekly  lie 
Released  from  the  embracing  trees, 
Uncovered  underneath  the  sky, 

While  I  was  all  alone  and  heard, 
Faint  as  an  echo  when  it  dies, 
The  melancholy  cuckoo  bird 
Keep  calling  for  her  own  replies, 

In  dream  I  saw  Neaera  there, 
Lying  asleep  among  the  grapes, 
Her  face  deep  nested  in  her  hair  .   . 
And  all  the  while  a  satyr  gapes  ! 

With  eyes  that  are  too  timid  sad 
And  open  lips  that  meditate 
The  pastures  of  her  breast  unclad, 
He  hears  his  heart — until,  too  late  ! 


She  has  drained  out  her  summer  sleep, 
Her  sunshine  languor  melts  away, 
And  ere  her  eyes  dream-heavy  peep, 
He  loses  all  his  heart  to  stay ! 

But  oftener  in  other  mood 
I  wander  to  the  wood  alone, 
And  in  a  chosen  solitude 
Unto  myself  I  make  my  moan 

Of  dreams  that  never  come  to  flower, 
And  of  those  flowers  that  are  forlorn, 
Like  morning-glories,  in  the  hour 
That  takes  away  the  hour  of  morn. 

Oh  then  when  I  have  wept  apart 
The  flowers  of  dream  so  nearly  dead, 
I  am  enlightened  in  my  heart 
And  delicately  comforted, 

And  see  that  the  unhuman  tryst 
There  with  the  living  solitude 
Is  sweeter  than  Neaera  kissed 
Within  the  secret  of  the  wood. 


EXPECTANCY 

DREAM,  drudge,  and  then  the  years  to  wait ! 
My  heart  is  listening  at  its  gate 
Forever  for  the  feet  of  Fate. 

And  while  the  seasons  cloud  and  clear, 
u  Is  Fate  far  off,  or  is  Fate  near, 
Or  passed  ?  "  I  ask  —  I  cannot  hearj 

Until  my  heart  reads  in  the  Laws : 
"  In  the  beginning  as  it  was, 
So  shall  it  be  without  a  pause  !  " 

Until  my  heart  in  secret  says  : 
"  Along  the  drifting  level  ways 
Of  Time  there  are  no  different  days !  " 

For  lo  !  without  a  trumpet  blast, 
The  mute  dead  march  of  Fate  at  last 
Is  coming  still  and  long  is  passed. 


A    BALLADE   TO    MY   LADY    MOONLIGHT 

I  KNOW  not  how  thou  cam'st  to  rise, 

Moon  of  my  nights,  and  waken  me 

From  slumber  that  was  death's  disguise  — 

No  power  on  earth  could  set  me  free. 

Ah,  but  the  power  was  heavenly, 

The  power  of  love  in  thee  enshrined  — 

Or  if  it  is  a  lunacy, 

Beloved,  do  not  call  me  blind ! 

There  was  no  word  of  dim  moonrise, 
No  early  flush  of  birth  to  be 
Along  the  east.    I  closed  my  eyes 
On  skies  as  dark  as  the  dark  sea. 
The  darkness  was  a  mystery 
Wherethrough  there  was  no  way  to  wind, 
Till  with  thy  light  thou  mad'st  me  see. 
Beloved,  do  not  call  me  blind  ! 

[     3°     ] 


Moon  of  my  nights,  on  sapphire  skies 
No  morning  star  gives  light  like  thee, 
Nor  comes  to  birth  in  blossom-wise 
Out  of  the  east  on  mere  or  lea 
So  like  a  lily  perfectly. 
The  stars  before  thee  and  behind, 
When  thou  art  shining,  fade  and  flee. 
Beloved,  do  not  call  me  blind ! 

Listen,  my  Moonlight,  to  my  plea ! 
Because  I  have  not  half  defined 
Thy  beauties  in  these  stanzas  three, 
Beloved,  do  not  call  me  blind  ! 


UNTIL  TO-MORROW 

UNTIL  to-morrow  or  some  other  day, 
To-morrow's  morrow  far  and  far  away, 
I  wander  with  bewildered  heart  and  feet, 
Lost  on  the  hills  of  separation,  sweet. 

Beyond  the  hills  of  separation,  sweet, 
Your  arms  will  hold  me  when  at  last  we  meet 
And  will  you  whisper,  then,  that  I  may  stay 
Until  to-morrow  or  some  other  day  ? 


ROMANTICISM 

I  WATCHED  the  window  of  the  world, 
Which  is  myself  inevitably, 
How  through  the  window  was  unfurled 
The  midnight  that  had  darkened  me. 

And  as  the  bursting  buds  emerge 
And  odorous  flames  of  flowers  are  born, 
I  followed  on  the  fainting  verge 
The  slow  emergency  of  morn. 

Wherefore,  because  all  curious  things, 
The  warmth  of  flowers,  the  flower  of  flame, 
The  momentariness  of  wings 
Weaving  together  the  ways  they  came, 

The  breath  of  lilies  on  still  air 
That  toll  like  censers  full  of  myrrh, 
The  weaving  of  a  woman's  hair, 
Which  breathes  the  frankincense  of  her, 

[     33     ] 


Because  all  curious  things  impress 
Me  only  through  the  sense  of  me, 
I  strove  to  make  for  loveliness 
A  sensitive  transparency ; 

Till  all  the  labor  on  the  glass 
Brought  a  reflection  dimly  known, 
And  mingled  with  the  shapes  that  pass 
I  see  the  eyes  that  are  mine  own  — 

Till  ever  in  the  carelessness 
Of  the  untroubled  world  I  see 
The  image  of  mine  own  distress, 
The  mute  mirage  of  sympathy, 

As  though  the  living  wine  of  pain 
Should  stir  again  its  stagnant  lees, 
And  with  a  human  sorrow  stain 
The  Hermes  of  Praxiteles. 


[     34     ] 


A    PRAYER 

POUR  down  the  darkness  of  your  hair 
As  a  veil  falls  over  the  evening  skies. 
I  hear  the  voice  of  an  old  despair 
Calling,  calling  out  of  the  past, 
And  there  's  an  echo  that  replies. 
Pour  down  the  darkness  of  your  hair 
And  make  a  mist  about  my  eyes  ; 
—  For  what  is  there  to  say  at  last  ? 


[     35     ] 


DREAM-TRYST 

COME  to  me  not  in  dream, 
For  fear  of  the  awaking ! 
What  is  the  good  to  seem, 
To  keep  my  heart  from  breaking  ? 

Come  to  me  not  to-night, 
O  dream  without  a  morrow  ! 
You  come  and  you  take  flight 
When  you  have  borne  my  sorrow. 

Come  to  me  not  at  all ! 
Then  is  the  world  a  hollow. 
You  do  not  come  —  you  call. 
You  do  not  come  —  I  follow  ! 


ABOVE  THE  SEA 

THE  hill  is  high  in  heaven, 
And  here  in  the  control 
Of  vision  shall  be  given 
The  seas  that  shall  unroll 
Till  seas  on  skies  are  driven, — 

Till  through  the  seas  asunder 

Is  the  abysm  cracked ; 

And  there  the  days  go  under, 

And  there  the  cataract 

Of  Ocean  throws  its  thunder. 

And  while  the  westward  rivers 
Are  winding  to  the  sea, 
The  dying  day  delivers 
Its  ghost,  which  seems  to  be 
The  dusk  that  cries  and  quivers. 

[     37     ] 


Now  is  the  saddest  hour 
Of  hours  that  still  are  sweet. 
Oh  for  my  heart  the  power, 
The  ways  oh  for  my  feet, 
To  find  its  fatal  flower ! 

Though  love  grow  even  fonder 
Than  love  that  lures  and  clings, 
Oh  that  I  still  may  wander 
Home  to  the  tears  of  things, 
And  know  the  trouble  yonder ! 


c  38 


NIGHT   SONG 

AH,  love,  it  is  all  so  dark  in  me 

That  I  fear  and  I  feel  alone, 

Like  one  who  wanders  along  the  sea 

And  hears  the  surges  moan  ; 

When  the  moonless  sea  is  a  mystery 

He  fears  and  he  feels  alone. 

Ah,  love,  will  you  look  in  the  dark  of  me 

As  though  you  understood 

The  sea  and  the  alien  shore  of  the  sea 

And  the  dark  unentered  wood  ? 

Your  eyes  in  a  moonless  mystery 

Make  heavenly  neighborhood  ! 


[     39     ] 


INTERIOR 

OH  to  enclose  thee,  sweet, 
A  lily  in  the  room, 
Wherein  a  chosen  gloom 

o 

Shuts  out  in  dim  defeat 

The  gold  and  crimson  blent 
In  the  ecstatic  songs 
Shrilled  by  the  sunny  throngs 
Of  flowers  too  violent ! 

The  fervent  flute  of  June 
Deliriously  blows 
The  crimson  of  the  rose 
And  the  high  note  of  noon. 

The  windows  have  a  veil 
That  lets  the  summer  fall 
More  mutely  musical 
Upon  the  cold  and  pale 

[     4°     ] 


Hush  of  the  mastered  keys 
Whereo'er  thy  fingers  furl, 
O  instrumental  girl 
For  human  melodies ! 


THE  RETURN 

I  LAY  me  under  quiet  skies  to  sleep 

And  cease  remembering  the  days  that  keep 

My  heart  awake  with  murmuring  their  old  tales, 

Murmuring  like  a  wind  against  the  sails 

That  seek  the  sea  and  are  blown  always  home. 

Haply,  I  said,  these  memories  may  roam 

At  last  and  all  go  sailing  down  the  sea, 

If  for  an  hour  of  sleep  I  cease  to  be. 

But  there  were  voices  in  the  open  sky 

Singing  so  far  away  they  seemed  to  die, 

The  voice  of  distance  and  a  singing  cloud 

Too  far  above  the  tree-tops  to  be  loud ; 

And  still  they  sang  and  kept  my  heart  awake 

Because  of  their  untroubled  beauty's  sake. 

So  it  grew  sweet  to  listen  to  old  stories, 

And  view  around  the  sterile  promontories 

The  dreams  that  were  too  weak  to  cross  the  sea 

Drift  back  to  their  old  haven  helplessly. 

[     4*     ] 


VENUS   OF   MELOS 

Lo,  I  was  weary,  and  I  have  rest  in  thee, 
For  over  the  fawns  of  thine  unhidden  breast 
And  solemn  urgency  of  their  long  gaze, 
The  veil  and  far  seclusion  of  thy  face 
Has  fallen  like  a  silence  blessedly, 
And  hushed  their  hunger  and  eternal  quest. 


[     43     ] 


AUTUMN    WIND 

THE  birds  drift  over  the  autumnal  sky 
Like  frail  and  fallen  leaves  across  a  lawn, 
And  the  unmttigating  winds  have  drawn 
Out  of  their  chant  a  shivering  shaken  cry. 

The  winds  have  wrecked  the  gleaming  sails  of  day 
And  they  have  made  a  sorrow  of  the  air  — 
Wild  winds,  that  are  as  streaming  as  the  hair 
Of  girls  that  wait  the  drowned  by  the  bay. 


[    44     ] 


QUEST 

WHAT  was  it  that  I  shall  not  seek  again, 
Vainly,  in  your  pure  eyes  sought  not  in  vain  ? 

What  was  it,  all  the  unsure  summer  through, 
I  feverishly  hoped  to  find  in  you  ? 

And  what,  when  in  a  new,  pathetic  wise, 
You  left  ajar  the  gateway  of  your  eyes, 

And  at  the  last  endured  that  I  should  look 
Into  your  eyes  and  read  as  in  a  book, 

Unveiling  in  a  tremulous  distress 
The  candor  of  your  spirit's  nakedness, 

What  was  it  in  your  eyes  that  let  me  read 
Merely  a  woman's  need  of  a  man's  need  ? 


[     45     ] 


Why  did  your  own  desiring  make  you  seem 

No  more  the  strange,  strange  woman  of  my  dream  ? 

Ah !  what  old  disillusion  turned  to  strike 
And  show  that  you  were  human-sisterlike  ? 


CONFIDENCES 

LISTENING  woman,  conjuring, 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  my  heart, 
Out  of  the  shelter  of  the  wing 
Of  shame  itself  that  broods  apart, 

The  words  that  are  as  wounds,  the  dreams 
That  are  so  quiet,  being  dead, 
What  is  this  wistfulness  that  gleams 
When  you  have  heard  and  I  have  said  ? 

Because  I  looked  upon  your  smile, 
I  held  my  heart  out  in  a  word. 
Your  smile  grew  sad  a  little  while  .   .  . 
Alas,  I  dreamed  that  you  had  heard  ! 

And  you,  when  you  have  listened  so, 
And  know  the  shrine  that  you  may  be, 
Where  praying  men  may  come  and  go, 
You  weep,  and  almost  feel  for  me. 

[     47     ] 


MY  LADY'S   TOMB 

MY  lady  in  the  darkened  house 
Where  all  the  dead  go  home  to  drowse 
Awoke,  and  could  not  understand 
The  flowers  that  faded  in  her  hand. 

My  lady  in  the  lonely  bed 
Where  she  had  never  thought  to  wed 
Knew  Death,  and  while  her  eyelids  kept 
The  look  of  sleep,  she  wept  and  wept. 

Above  her  eyes,  a  fountain  sealed, 
With  lips  all  thirsty  Death  hath  kneeled, 
And  he  hath  drunk  from  the  dim  pool 
That  made  her  sorrows  beautiful. 

And  in  the  waning  garden  close 
Where  many  a  lily  and  one  red  rose 
Were  all  the  life  that  she  would  reap, 
Death  like  a  lover  falls  asleep. 


WEARINESS 

I  AM  weary  already  of  the  years  that  are  yet  to  be, 
The  sad  and  stale  prepared  procession  of  years 
That  flag  with  desperate  hopes  and  a  fever  of  fears 
The  straight  descent  and  the  single  certainty. 

I  fear  the  invasion  of  days  that,  one  by  one, 
Stealthily  over  the  wall  of  the  leaguered  night, 
Invade  the  city  of  sleep  with  a  lance  of  light 
And  a  flood  of  flame  and  the  torch  of  a  surging  sun, 

And  when  the  flame  and  the  flood  pass  over  me, 
I  shall  feel  too  tired  for  the  waking  after  death. 
I  had  rather  sleep  than  draw  the  long,  long  breath 
Of  the  tired  insomnia  of  eternity. 


[     49     ] 


FOR  A  PICTURE    BY   LEONARDO    DA   VINCI 

MARY  the  virgin  mother  —  see  !  — 
Still  like  a  child  upon  the  knee 
Of  Anne  as  virginal  as  she, 

The  mother  like  a  sister  grown 
To  her  who  of  herself  alone 
Covered  a  god  with  flesh  and  bone. 

Veiled  in  a  smile  that  is  not  mirth, 
They  dream  of  the  vain  virgin  birth 
That  is  a  miracle  on  earth. 

The  smile  of  their  secretive  eyes 
Is  with  a  subtle  shame  grown  wise, 
The  holy  shame  of  Mysteries. 

And  on  their  maiden  mouths  their  smile 
Hides  them  as  Eve  hid,  in  the  guile 
Of  women  who  have  loved  awhile. 

[  5°  ] 


Though  grace  of  God  has  lighted  there 

The  hidden  haloes  of  their  hair, 

And  though  they  tend  with  wistful  care 

The  Son  of  God  and  still  their  own, 
They  are  as  slaves  whose  dreams  have  flown 
From  where  they  wait  about  the  throne, 

As  vestal  slaves  who  dream  again, 
In  lands  where  they  are  alien, 
Of  olden  home  and  hearts  of  men. 


SLUMBER   SONG 

WE  are  alone  and  guarded  deep 
Among  the  silences  of  sleep, 
And  morning  muses  still  so  far, 
It  has  not  dimmed  the  morning  star. 
Sleep  and  be  happy,  do  not  moan  — 
We  are  alone. 

Sleep  and  be  happy,  do  not  break 
The  twilight  with  your  eyes  awake ! 
Oh  sleep,  oh  sleep,  the  dreadful  day 
Is  still  so  many  hours  away; 
And  when  you  are  awake  you  seem 
To  lose  a  dream. 


CHRYSEIS 

WHEN  came  the  priest  thy  father  to  recapture 
Thee,  O  thou  sad  and  glad  Chryseis,  won 
And  worn  by  Agamemnon  and  undone, 
What  of  thy  rape  and  thine  unwilling  rapture 

Didst  thou  remember,  pure  and  simple  daughter, 
Seeing  thy  father  with  a  golden  treasure 
Still  fail  to  free  thee  from  the  deadly  pleasure 
And  sail  without  thee  home  across  the  water  ? 

Wert  thou  so  lonely  then  that  thou  didst  crave 
Oh  any  touch  to  make  thee  less  alone, 
Till,  when  the  Grecian  hand  unclasped  thy  zone, 
Almost  did'st  thou  forget  to  be  a  slave  ? 

And  when  thy  father's  god  with  myriad  slaughter 
Ransomed  thee  at  the  last  as  if  with  gold, 
And  Agamemnon's  fingers  loosed  their  hold 
Among  thy  tresses,  O  thou  ravished  daughter, 

[     53     ] 


And  when  the  Grecians  sailed  thee  home  again, 
Threading  the  islands  toward  thy  native  cape, 
No  more  a  simple  maid  !   what  of  thy  rape 
And  thine  unwilling  helpless  rapture  then 

Didst  thou  remember,  leaning  on  the  mast 

That  dipt  into  the  winds  like  a  god's  oar  ? 

Didst  thou  gaze  backward  toward  the  Trojan  shore, 

Willing  a  little  at  the  very  last  ? 


[     54    ] 


THE   WILD    ROSE 

DEEP  in  the  meadow  where  the  roses  hive 
Their  joy  of  June  I  went  to  be  made  glad. 
They  were  not  human  but  they  were  alive, 
And  they  were  all  the  living  that  I  had. 

The  joyous  roses  in  the  meadow  twine 
And  of  themselves  they  give  abundantly. 
I  plucked  a  rose,  but  it  would  not  be  mine, 
I  breathed  it,  but  I  could  not  make  it  me. 

I  tore  the  garment  of  my  rose  apart. 
Alas,  when  all  the  petals  had  been  shed, 
Still  made  my  rose  a  secret  of  its  heart, 
And  I  have  left  it  on  the  meadow  dead. 


[     55    ] 


DURING   MUSIC 

SLOW  with  old  pain 
Awake  again, 
Her  eyelids  cling 
In  opening 
Without  surprise 
Pain-patient  eyes. 
Her  memory 
How  like  the  sea, 
Whereunder,  low, 
The  afterglow 
Of  day  and  night 
Sinks  out  of  sight ! 
Ah,  she  knows  not 
Her  own  dim  thought, 
Nor  of  her  passion 
Its  first  fierce  fashion, 
Nor  of  the  past 
Knows  now  at  last 
The  dawn  above 
The  flight  of  love. 

[  56  ] 


All  things  that  were 
Are  dim  to  her, 
The  dead  days  rise 
With  vacant  eyes, 
So  swift,  so  aching 
The  woe  awaking 
Wakens  to  swoon 
At  this  old  tune. 


[     57    ] 


SEAWARD 

I  KNOW  there  is  another  strand 
Down  where  the  sky  is  low  as  land, 
Out  of  whose  dimness  cometh  soon 
The  lowly  rising  of  the  moon. 
And  her  impassive  bar  of  light 
Across  the  waters  in  the  night 
Hath  power  to  hold  the  surges  under, 
When  they  rise  up  in  foam  and  thunder. 
And  when  the  moon  is  taken  away, 
There  is  no  light  till  early  day, 
And  nothing  on  the  sea  can  hold 
The  strength  of  waters  mountain-rolled, 
No  light  along  the  hidden  sea 
Husheth  the  waves  continually. 


NOCTURNE 

STARS  in  the  silent  boughs 
Wake  while  the  robins  drowse. 

After  so  long  a  winging 

What  starts  them  now  to  singing  ? 

Of  course  it  is  a  love, 
Which  they  are  dreaming  of. 

But  song  and  stars  and  dreams 
Are  lovelier  than  love  seems. 

Dreams  and  the  stars  and  song ! 
Oh  why  does  the  world  go  wrong  ? 


[     59     ] 


THE    GRAVE 

I  WONDER  if  she  grieves  in  her  dark  grave 
Because  she  may  not  look  through  closed  eyes 
When  the  mild  moth  wings  of  the  morning  wave 
And  swarm  the  tranquil  emptiness  of  skies  ? 

I  wonder  if  regret  for  the  green  earth 

Wakens  her  heart  and  tells  her  timid  feet 

To  grope  back  homeward  through  the  gates  of  birth 

Where  there  's  a  sun  to  make  the  shadow  sweet  ? 

Once  on  her  grave  the  flowers  were  springing  up, 
And  they  were  bursting  with  the  need  to  live ; 
And  every  flower  had  raised  an  empty  cup 
Under  the  April  sun,  and  sang:  "O  give!" 

And  now  they  lift  unto  a  sunless  cloud 

Their  cups  still  empty,  and  they  still  cry :  "  Give  ! " 

And  so  may  she  be  crying  in  her  shroud, 

And  so  may  she  have  still  the  need  to  live. 

[  60  ] 


TIME'S   LOSSES 

I 

EGYPTIAN  sands  are  restless  like  the  sea! 
With  winds  of  all  the  ages,  wave  on  wave, 
Up  heaven's  stairs,  the  Pyramid,  they  rave  .  .  . 
They  drown  that  rival  of  eternity ! 
And  Cleopatra  beckoned  Anthony 
To  show  her  with  a  kiss  if  he  were  brave 
Five  fathom  underneath  the  climbing  grave 
That  riddles  to  the  Sphinx  unanswerably. 

Holier  ashes  in  the  sands  are  drowned 

Than  Cleopatra's,  fair  but  fainter  fames 

Of  queens  that  were  no  more  than  blooms  of  sound, 

The  "  Tragedies  "  of  Alexandria's  flames. 

In  ashes  are  they  dead  ?      Go  tell  the  Sphinx 

That  they  in  God  are  living  when  God  thinks  ! 


TIME'S  LOSSES 

II 

THE  golden  pillars  of  the  Parthenon 
Are  all  discrowned  of  the  Pheidian  frieze ; 
Statues  of  gods  within  the  waves  off  Greece 
The  Romans  drowned,  and  then  they  voyaged  on. 
Chryselephantine  phantom  of  the  dawn, 
Such  is  Athena  now  that  no  man  sees ; 
And  never  in  Melos  more  may  Venus  ease 
With  her  lost  lovely  arms  her  lovers  gone. 

Earth  the  eternal  lies  upon  the  tomb 

Of  men  who  made  of  her  so  great  a  mother. 

She  waits  .  .  .  of  men  alive  she  waits  what  other 

To  make  her  spirit  from  her  body  bloom, 

Her  maiden  majesty  and  act  of  love, 

And  the  still  unconceived  dreams  thereof? 


ON   A    MACEDONIAN   TOMB 

So  soon,  behold,  they  tired  of  this  their  House, 
Man  and  his  woman  even  one  in  death, 
Which  from  the  love  of  life  left  out  of  breath 
Their  souls  explored  and  makes  it  hard  to  rouse. 
They  have  released  themselves  and  dare  not  drowse, 
Mistrustful,  though  the  stealthy  silence  saith: 
"  Unto  the  dead  no  new  thing  followeth, 
So  slumber  on  beneath  the  cypress  boughs." 

Yea,  they  have  risen  now  and  plumb  the  deep 

Of  the  god-haunted  spaces  of  the  skies, 

Nor  trust  the  sad  security  of  sleep, 

Nor  rest  the  ageless  watching  of  their  eyes, 

Lest  the  abortion  of  the  future  leap 

Quick  on  them  with  the  terror  of  surprise. 


THE   END  OF   THE   STORY 

SADLY  at  midnight  in  the  little  room 

I  close  the  book,  and  on  the  window  pane 

I  lean  my  forehead,  till  I  hear  again 

Time  —  that  is  disenchanted  now  —  resume 

Its  death-watch  like  a  sentry  in  the  gloom  ; 

And  in  my  soul  I  hear  the  Grecian  main 

Ebbing  its  music  from  a  tidal  plain 

That  now  becomes  a  waste  without  one  bloom, 

I  close  the  book,  and  from  imagined  flight 
I  sink  into  myself.    Good  night,  good  night, 
If  night  were  not  so  long !  See  how  the  moon 
Is  lagging  in  the  arms  of  yonder  tree  ! 
The  night  is  stagnant !  Ah,  but  see  how  soon 
Out  of  those  arms  the  moon  is  rising  free ! 


AT  PARTING 

HUSH  and  give  over :  have  no  other  thought 
Than  to  be  silent  now !  Ah,  cease  to  urge 
Her  to  return ;  for  on  the  sunset  verge 
Of  her  own  lone  horizon  she  has  caught 
The  wings  of  her  own  spirit  sought  and  sought. 
Call  her  no  more  j  lest,  if  she  should  emerge 
Shoreward  a  moment,  she  should  feel  the  surge 
Breaking  again  upon  the  life  forgot. 

I  would,  instead,  that  I  might  go  with  her ! 
Yea,  this  instead,  because  she  is  so  young 
And  may  be  troubled  when  the  shadows  stir 
And  have  no  knowledge  of  her  way  among 
The  nights  that  must  be  lonelier  than  they  were, 
When  to  my  hand  she  tremulously  clung. 


THE  SLEEPING   BEAUTY 

SHE  sleeps  .  .  .  and  shall  she  yet  awake  ?  She  lies 

So  very  quiet  on  her  narrow  bed. 

The  lace  about  her  throat,  the  lilies  spread 

Upon  her  bosom  neither  fall  nor  rise, 

Nor  pale  beneath  the  pallor  of  the  skies 

Veiled  by  the  darkened  windows;  candles  shed 

The  light  that  only  falls  about  the  dead. 

When  they  are  burned  what  dawn  shall  touch  her  eyes  ? 

Princess  of  Slumber  for  a  Hundred  Years, 

Before  you  fell  asleep  you  dried  your  tears, 

Hearing  a  Prince  should  come  for  your  awaking, 

And  gladly  closed  your  eyes  to  wait  for  him  ! 

So  if  he  leave  your  eyes  forever  dim, 

Grieve  not  —  you  shall  not  know  your  old  mistaking ! 


[    66     ] 


"MUSIC  TO   HEAR" 

A  LITTLE  longer  let  thy  fingers  fall 
Upon  the  keys.  Oh  cease,  oh  cease  not  yet ! 
But  still,  oh  very  gently,  touch  and  fret 
The  sleep  of  an  enchanted  madrigal  ! 
Fret  and  awake,  call  and  caress  and  call, 
And  give  not  over  calling,  weep  and  wet 
Thy  song  with  all  thy  tears,  till  it  forget 
The  silence  that  shall  be  the  end  of  all. 

Give  over  now  at  last,  and  let  it  be  ! 
Waken  no  song  that  sleeps.  Touch  not  a  key, 
But  let  thine  hands  in  mine  be  quiet.  Lo  ! 
Above  that  halcyon  brooding  on  the  seas 
Which  was  thy  voice,  the  tidal  silences 
Float  with  the  drowned  life  of  long  ago ! 


FOR   A   PICTURE   OF   A   SAINT 

SHE  was  a  girl  who  waited  on  the  Lord, 

And  years  becalmed  were  hers  that  she  might  pray, 

For  He  had  pleasure  in  the  simple  way 

She  spake,  and  when  before  the  Throne  she  poured 

The  patience  of  her  gaze  she  made  accord 

With  all  the  viols  that  in  Heaven  play, 

And  from  the  hymn  on  high  the  Will  would  stray 

Earthward  to  her  for  some  enchanted  word. 

Fountains  were  like  the  service  of  her  thought, 
And  on  her  soul,  forsooth,  her  senses  fell 
Like  April  rains  at  night  that  waken  not. 
But  if  she  ever  loved  I  cannot  tell, 
Or  if  the  soul  that  has  to  Heaven  been  caught 
Had  dared  to  tarry  with  a  soul  in  Hell. 


TO  ONE  WHOSE  LOVE  WAS  SERVICE 

SHE  never  would  have  had  a  parting  grieve 
The  two  or  three  who  gathered  in  her  name, 
Nor  for  the  spent  self-sacrificial  flame 
Of  all  her  days  spared  she  at  all  to  sheave 
The  tired  late  hours  left  in  the  field  at  eve, 
The  hours  ungleaned,  but  offered  still  the  same 
That   presence    unto    which    our    prayers   made 

claim  .  .  . 
And  so  we  dreamed  that  she  would  not  take  leave. 

But  on  a  night  that  was  without  a  moon 

Or  even  a  star  to  light  her  long  last  way, 

She  moved  her  lips  that  we  might  come  and  kneel 

Beside  her ;  and  we  know  not  then  how  soon 

She  laid  her  lips  upon  us  for  her  seal ; 

But  when  we  rose  it  was  another  day. 


A    FACE 

SUSCEPTIBLE  as  silence  to  a  song, 
Or  lakes  to  winds,  or  night  to  slow  sunrise, 
Or  dreamers  sleeping  where  the  moonlight  lies 
On  meadows,  to  the  moon's  evasions  long, 
These  are  the  eyes  the  days  departed  throng 
With  memories  like  clouds  upon  the  skies, 
Till  out  of  weariness  remembrance  dies, 
And  hope,  and  nothing  now  is  right  or  wrong. 

Yet  as  the  weary  may  outsleep  the  dawn 
And  waken  in  the  doubtful  evening  light, 
Thinking  it  still  is  dawn  and  not  the  night, 
So  she  would  think,  —  if  only  Love  would  tell!  — 
That  still  her  golden  hours  have  not  all  gone 
The  shadowy  way  that  leads  from  Heaven  to  Hell. 


[     7°    ] 


THE   PIETA   OF   MICHEL   ANGELO 

LOOK  now  how  broken  and  how  spent  he  lies, 

Even  like  an  arrow  shattered  in  a  tree, 

Or  like  a  messenger  of  victory 

Who  to  his  home  so  races  that  he  dies. 

In  death  dead-tired,  he  seems  to  agonise 

Now  for  the  rest  he  takes  upon  the  knee 

Of  her  who  knows  how  restful  death  must  be, 

Bowing  with  pitilessly  peaceful  eyes. 

He  knew  the  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him, 
Once,  in  the  years  accomplished,  to  console 
A  sickened  woman  ;  now  from  every  limb 
The  crucified  extortion  of  his  soul 
Drains  until  limbs  are  shrunk  and  eyes  are  dim 
Virtue  enough  to  make  a  sick  world  whole. 


ATALANTA 

I  THINK  that  Atalanta  turned  her  face 
Backward  along  the  course  and  saw  the  man, 
Desperately  defeated  as  he  ran, 
Throw  down  a  golden  apple  upon  a  place 
Where  she  must  pass  again  and  win  the  race. 
She  scanned  his  eyes  —  what  care  had  she  to  scan 
The  shame  of  gold  that  was  to  break  her  ban 
Of  girlhood  ?  — and  she  faltered  in  her  pace. 

Oh  then  she  feared  the  fear  to  be  a  bride, 

And  feared  the  wind  that  had  laid  bare  her  thigh ; 

She  burned  to  blushes,  but  she  paused  and  bowed 

Above  the  apple  till  he  passed  her  by; 

She  hid  her  burning  in  his  dusty  cloud 

And  heard  the  trailing  laughter  of  his  pride! 


IN   THE    HOME   OF   LIFE 

As  though  to-morrow  were  the  mortal  morn, 

The  unpermitted  portal  in  the  hall 

Where  I  have  turned  the  golden  keys  of  all 

Those  other  portals  wide  and  overworn 

With  passionate  quest  and  hope  not  all  forlorn, 

Death  seems  so  near  to  me  that  I  might  call 

And  by  mine  own  intrusion  disenthrall 

The  secret  that  he  keeps  behind  his  bourne. 

Scarce  would  I  say  God  grant,  for  God  grants  deatH ; 

Yet  granting  death  to  me  in  time  to  come, 

God  grant  my  spirit  be  not  wholly  numb, 

Nor  so  distracted  by  a  strangling  breath 

That  then  should  be  eclipsed  by  the  pain 

The  love  that  after  all  was  all  life's  gain. 


[     73     ] 


WHEN   I   AM   OLD 

WHEN  I  am  old  and  weary  of  the  world, 
And  ready  for  the  solitary  change 
That  after  all  adventure  shall  be  strange  — 
When  after  revolutions  that  have  hurled 
The  crowns  of  noon  into  the  ocean  swirled 
Round  my  Helena  and  its  haunted  grange 
I  shall  beside  the  window  sit  and  range 
Lost  kingdoms  with  a  dream  of  banners  furled, 

Be  with  me  then  ...  or  if  you  have  to  be 
Upon  your  errand  to  Eternity, 
Oh  keep  not  hidden  in  the  skyey  blue; 
But  turn  at  every  star,  half  lingeringly, 
And  drop  a  quiet  flower  of  memory, 
That  I  may  know  the  way  to  follow  you. 


[     74     ] 


THE   NIGHTINGALES 

STILL  in  Boccaccio's  book  the  nightingales, 
As  in  the  ancient  night  of  Florence,  cool 
With  stars  that  made  the  silence  purposeful, 
Gleam  in  the  silence  with  the  starry  tales 
Boccaccio  told  of  lust  that  wore  love's  veils. 
Pure  songs,  they  charm  the  claws  of  Time  that  pull 
Love's  veils  away  and  show  the  withered  skull 
Hidden  where  the  face  flushes  not  now  nor  pales. 

Oh  for  what  face  outlived  that  once  was  hers, 
Hers  who  is  living  now  and  here  asleep, 
Call  ye  among  the  dead,  proud  wakeners  ? 
Oh  call  no  more,  or  she  will  wake  and  weep ! 
She  wanders  now  by  broken  sepulchres, 
She  has  an  other  tryst  than  mine  to  keep. 


[     75     ] 


THE   POET 

JUST  listen  to  the  poet's  dream  — 
Of  life  he  wants  to  live  the  whole  ! 
So  starving,  that  to  feed  his  soul, 
Poor  fellow,  he  must  make  things  seem  ! 


THE    MASTERPIECE 

I  THINK  ere  any  early  poet  awed 
Men  with  a  haunted  image  of  Mankind, 
They  buried  in  a  grave  gone  out  of  mind 
The  supreme  poet  who  imagined  God. 


[     77     ] 


YOUTH 

I  AM  as  one  born  blind.   God,  let  me  see ! 
Thou  hast  enchanted  me  in  a  strange  land, 
So  sweet,  that  I  forget  the  mystery 
Of  thine  unseen,  insinuating  Hand. 


c  78 


TIME   IN  A  GARDEN 

THE  daffodils  have  held  one  golden  day 
For  seven  days  and  nights  ;  their  day  is  done. 
Their  requiem,  'tis  the  iris  misty  and  gray, 
Which  holds  the  hour  of  twilight  in  the  sun. 


[    79    ] 


THE    RHONE  AT  AVIGNON 

UNDER  the  towers  the  currents  of  the  Rhone 
Endure  the  deep  division  of  an  isle, 
Proud  from  the  first  embrace  to  wait  alone 
Their  marriage  through  the  seaward  Afterwhile. 


ON  A   CERTAIN   IRREGULARITY 

PUT  out  the  World  —  I  want  to  sleep  awhile  ! 
I  know  about  her  beauties  very  well. 
When  I  am  tired  of  her  Platonic  smile, 
She  breaks  the  Law  to  work  a  Miracle  ! 


TO   A   DESERTED    LITTER  OF   PUPPIES 

NEW-BORN,  and  so  precariously  new, 
Blind  in  a  milkless  world,  and  shivering, 
The  very  puppies  for  a  moment  knew 
That  the  life-effort  is  the  fatal  thing. 


TO   A   GOADED    SHEEP 

IF  it  had  known  the  journey's  end,  the  dunce, 
Limping  along,  the  mimic  of  its  pain, 
It  might  have  known  there  was  n't  much  to  gain  — 
It  might  have  rested,  and  been  killed  at  once. 


A    FRANCISCAN 

His  tonsure  like  a  branded  aureole, 
His  naked  feet,  the  rope  that  round  him  ties 
The  sack  that  cloisters  him  —  can  these  control 
The  truant  dreaming  of  his  prisoned  eyes  ? 


TRIBUTE 

SOME  few,  within  a  still,  religious  haunt, 
Pay  unto  God  the  tribute  of  their  praise ; 
But  others  have  to  pay  in  other  ways  — 
They  suffer,  God,  if  that  is  what  you  want. 


OUT   OF   DOORS 

I  HEAR  the  wings,  the  winds,  the  river  pass, 
And  toss  the  fretful  book  upon  the  grass. 
Poor  book,  it  could  not  cure  my  soul  of  aught  — 
It  has  itself  the  old  disease  of  thought. 


ABOUT   AN   ALLEGORY 

IT  was  the  earth  that  Dante  trod 
When  he  trod  Hell,  it  was  the  earth, 
Itself  sufficient  for  the  hearth 
That  warms  the  hands  of  a  cold  God. 


TRISTAN  AND  ISEULT   OF  THE   WHITE 
HANDS 

A   FRAGMENT 

Tristan 
BOY,  art  thou  waking  ? 

fault 

Nay,  he  sleeps,  but  I 
Have  wakened  all  night  through,  dear  lord. 

Tristan 

What  news  ? 

Iseult 

The  dawn  hath  broke  the  east.  There  hath  no  more 
Than  dawn  and  gradual  stars  come  over-sea, 
And  the  long  moon  since  last  I  gave  thee  word. 


Tristan 

Then  will  I  watch  by  day  as  thou  by  night, 
Till  that  lone  ship  shall  follow  stars  and  moon 
Up  to  the  empty  circle  of  the  heavens, 
And  rise  on  wings  of  white  and  bring  my  love, 
Or  rise  on  raven  wings  and  bring  her  not, 
And  tell  me  with  its  wings  to  live  or  die. 
Lift  me  a  little  in  my  bed,  Iseult, 
Lift  me,  and  let  me  look  upon  the  light. 

Iseult 

Yea,  Tristan,  rest  thine  eyes  upon  the  sky 
And  the  untroubled  presence  of  the  sea, 
And  rest  upon  my  breast  thy  fallen  head. 

Tristan 

Thine  arms  are  all  about  me  as  of  old. 
Where  have  we  fallen  apart,  Iseult,  that  thus 
Thine  arms  are  all  about  me  as  of  old 
And  thy  loose  hair  entangles  me,  and  still 
I  am  as  far  from  thee  as  hell  from  heaven  ? 


Iseult 

Ask  me  not  that,  nor  ask  it  of  thyself, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  understand  too  well  at  last 
How  flowers  of  loveliness  may  fade  for  love. 
Perchance  I  waked  for  thee  too  long,  and  faded  ! 

Tristan 
Wert  thou  awake  indeed  ? 

Iseult 

Yea,  lord,  indeed. 

Tristan 

Would  I  had  called  thee  then.  I  lay  alone, 
Walled  in  by  midnight  darkness,  and  the  waves 
Rolled  out  their  rhythms  on  the  empty  sands 
And  set  the  chambers  murmuring  like  a  shell. 
Then  was  I  haunted  by  a  ghost  of  fear  .  .  . 
The  seas  are  very  perilous  by  night, 
And  love  is  little  when  the  seas  are  wide : 
Perchance  Iseult  of  Cornwall  will  not  come  ! 
I  might  have  called  thee  when  I  trembled  then, 

[     9°     I 


And  felt  thee  throbbing  by  me,  breath  by  breath, 
A  living  creature  in  that  deadly  darkness. 

Istult 

The  midnight  darkness  walled  us  in  together, 
The  surges  rolled  their  rhythms  on  the  shore, 
The  chambers  murmured  dumbly  like  a  shell, 
And  I  was  haunted  by  a  ghost  like  thine. 
I  have  no  gift  of  comfort  any  more 
To  bring  thee  quiet  breathing  in  the  night, 
For  all  my  magic  is  nothing  more  than  love, 
And  all  my  love  is  turned  from  me  aside 
While  from  my  breast  thou  gazest  to  the  sea. 

Tristan 

My  wound  is  master  of  my  words,  Iseult. 
I  am  too  weary  with  my  wound  to  say 
How  I  love  not,  how  love,  how  now  my  life 
Lingers  a  little  only  till  my  love 
From  all  her  sailing  sinks  her  anchor  here. 
Thee  have  I  loved  indeed.     So  for  that  love, 
So  for  that  love  that  I  have  not  remembered, 
Oh  help  me  live  until  the  sails  come  home  ! 
Be  not  afraid,  I  should  not  leave  thee  then, 

[  91  ] 


Not  though  a  friend  had  need  and  called,  not  though 
Another  love  than  thine  were  calling  at  last 
Should  I  arise  and  leave  for  love  or  battle. 
But  all  my  heart  hath  only  this  desire, 
That  the  warm  woman  flower  of  overseas 
Iseult  of  Cornwall  hear  my  call  and  come, 
Crossing  the  seas,  and  hide  me  in  her  hair, 
And  hold  me  in  her  fragrance  till  I  die. 


TRANSLATIONS 


SONNET 

FROM    RONSARD 

I  WANT  to  read  the  Iliad  in  three  days, 

So,  Corydon,  turn  tight  the  lock  on  me. 

If  any  one  disturbs  me,  verily, 

Thou  shalt  find  out  how  much  mine  anger  weighs, 

I  only  want  to  come  and  make  my  bed 
Our  chambermaid,  thy  mate,  and  never  thee ; 
I  want  to  live  three  days  in  privacy, 
Then  to  make  merry  for  a  week  ahead. 

But  should  somebody  from  Cassandra  come, 
Open  the  door  and  let  him  enter  straight, 
Hurry  into  my  room,  and  help  me  dress. 

For  him  alone  I  want  to  be  at  home. 
Otherwise,  though  a  god  for  me  express 
From  heaven,  shut  the  door  and  let  him  wait. 


SONNET 

FROM    DU    BELLAY 

HAPPY  is  he  who  like  Ulysses  travels  far, 
Or  like  the  one  who  made  the  conquest  of  the  Fleece, 
And  then  returns,  laden  with  lore  and  memories, 
To  pass  the  remnant  of  his  life  where  kindred  are  ! 

Alas,  when  shall  I  see  again  the  smoke  upglide 
Above  my  little  town,  and  in  what  time  of  year 
See  once  again  the  garden  of  my  home  austere, 
Which  is  for  me  a  province,  and  so  much  beside  ? 

Pleases  me  more  the  mansion  that  my  fathers  knew 
Than  the  facades  of  Roman  courts  spectacular : 
Pleases  me  more  than  mighty  marble  the  slate  fine, 
Than  the  Italian  Tiber  more  the  Gallic  Loire, 
And  more  my  little  Lyre  than  Mount  Palatine, 
And  more  than  ocean  wind  the  softness  of  Anjou. 


UPON   A   DEAD   WOMAN 

FROM    DE    MUSSET 

BEAUTIFUL  was  she,  if  the  Night 
Which  sleeps  where  Michel  Angelo 
Has  made  her  bed  the  shrine  twilight, 
Without  a  motion  may  be  so. 

She  was  a  saint,  if  't  is  enough, 
Passing,  to  give  with  open  palms, 
So  God  sees  not  nor  speaks  thereof; 
If,  without  pity,  gold  makes  alms. 

Thoughtful  she  was,  if  the  vain  tone 
Of  a  sweet  voice  and  subtly  wrought, 
Just  like  a  stream  that  maketh  moan, 
May  make  one  have  belief  in  thought. 

She  prayed,  if  two  resplendent  eyes, 
Upon  the  earth  a  moment  staying, 
A  moment  lifted  to  the  skies, 
May  properly  be  called  a  praying. 

[     97     ] 


She  would  have  smiled,  if  ever  a  flower 
That  is  not  in  full  blossom  yet 
Could  be  burst  open  by  the  power 
Of  winds  that  pass  it  and  forget. 

She  would  have  wept,  if  hand  of  hers, 
Laid  on  her  heart  in  this  cold  way, 
Could  once  have  felt  in  all  her  years 
The  dew  of  heaven  in  human  clay. 

She  would  have  loved,  save  that  her  pride, 
Like  to  the  lamp  unserviceable 
Illumined  at  the  coffin's  side, 
By  her  hard  heart  stood  sentinel. 

She  Js  dead,  and  never  lived  at  all. 
She  looks  as  though  she  were  not  dead. 
Out  of  her  hands  she  has  let  fall 
The  book  that  she  has  never  read. 


c  98 


MEDITATION 

FROM    BAUDELAIRE 

BE  patient,  O  my  Grief,  and  quiet  down. 
You  call  for  Evening;  it  descends;  't  is  here; 
An  atmosphere  obscure  enfolds  the  town, 
Bringing  to  some  repose,  to  others  fear. 
Now,  while  the  human  hordes  without  renown, 
Under  the  lash  of  Pleasure,  doomsman  drear, 
Gather  remorse  in  fetes  of  slave  and  clown, 
My  Grief,  hold  out  your  hand  to  me  ;  draw  near, 
Afar  from  them.  See  how  the  Years  deceased 
Bow  from  the  skies  in  robes  of  by-gone  styles ; 
Out  of  the  water  springs  Regret  and  smiles ; 
Beneath  an  arch  is  drowsed  the  dying  sun, 
And  drawn  like  a  long  coffin  toward  the  East, 
Hear,  love,  the  coming  Night,  the  gentle  one. 


[99] 


COMPLAINT   OF   LORD    PIERROT 

FROM    JULES    LAFORGUE 

SHE  that  must  put  me  wise  about  the  Feminine  ! 
We  '11  tell  her  firstly,  with  my  air  least  impolite : 
"  The  angles  of  a  triangle,  O  sweetheart  mine, 
Are  equal  to  two  right." 

And  if  this  cry  escape  her :  "  God,  how  I  love  thee  ! " 
—  "  God  will  reward  his  own."    Or  if  she  wince  and  cry 
"  My  keys  have  heart,  thou  shalt  be  all  my  melody  ! " 
"  All 's  relative,"  say  I. 

With  all  her  eyes  then,  knowing  that  she  is  too  trite : 
"Alas,  thou  lov'st  me  not;  others  are  jealous,  too!  " 
And  I,  who  with  one  eye  at  the  Unconscious  sight : 
"  Thanks,  not  so  bad ;  and  you  ?  " 

[     100     ] 


"  Let 's  play  that  we  are  true  !  "  —  "  O  Nature,  for  what 

profit  ? 

For  each  who  loses  someone  wins !  "  Then  lines  like  these : 
u  Thou  'It  be  the  first  to  weary,  I  am  certain  of  it.  .  .  .  ' 
. —  "  After  you,  if  you  please." 

At  last  if  she  shall  die  some  evening,  fugitive 

Among  my  books ;  feigning  to  be  incredulous, 

I'll  mutter:  "Well  now,  but  —  we  had  the  Means  to  Live! 

So  it  was  serious  ?  " 


[        101        ] 


CONCEITS 

FROM    JULES    LAFORGUE 

AH  !  the  Moon,  the  Moon  obsesses  me  . 
Do  you  think  there  is  a  remedy  ? 

Dead  ?   But  may  she  not  be  merely  numb, 
Drunken  with  the  cosmic  opium  ? 

O  rose-window  with  thine  efflorescence 
Tomb-like  in  the  Temple  of  Quiescence, 

Thou  persistest  in  thine  attitude, 
While  I  stifle  with  my  lonely  mood. 

Yes,  oh  yes,  thy  breast  is  fashioned  fair ; 
But,  if  never  I  may  suckle  there  ?  .  .  . 

Oh,  to-morrow  night,  and  such  allusion 
Will  go  off  a-laughing  in  confusion, 


Finding  in  my  platonism  fine 
Raptures  of  an  angler  at  his  line. 

Queen  of  Lilies,  hail !  Your  Majesty, 

I  would  pierce  thee  with  the  moths  of  me ! 

I  would  kiss  thy  patine,  widowed 
Charger  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist's  head  ! 

I  would  find  a  song  to  touch  thee  so, 
Thou  would'st  voyage  to  the  mouth  below. 

But  there  are  no  other  rhymes  for  Moon  —  ah, 
What  a  most  regrettable  lacuna ! 


SEA   WIND 

FROM    MALLARME 

THE  flesh  is  sad,  alas,  and  all  the  books  are  read. 
Flight,  flight  out  there  !  The  birds,  I  know,  are  ravished 
To  be  amid  the  unknown  foam  and  in  the  skies  ! 
Nothing,  not  olden  gardens  mirrored  in  the  eyes 
Can  hold  at  home  this  heart  that  plunges  in  the  sea, 

0  nights,  nor  yet  my  candle's  lonely  clarity 

On  the  blank  page  whose  whiteness  keeps  it  undefiled, 
Nor  the  young  wife  who  suckles  at  her  breast  her  child. 

1  will  depart.   O  steamer  with  thy  masts  asway, 
Lift  anchor  now  for  an  exotic  Far-away. 

An  ennui,  desolate  with  hopes  that  turned  to  griefs, 
Is  trusting  still  the  last  good-bye  of  handkerchiefs  ! 
And  it  may  be  these  masts,  which  to  the  tempests  beck, 
Are  even  of  those  a  wind  may  bend  above  a  wreck 
Lost,  with  no  masts,  no  masts  nor  isles  exuberant  .  .  . 
But  hearken,  O  my  heart,  unto  the  sailors'  chant ! 

Note:  The  first  line  is  Arthur  Symons\ 


WHAT  SILK   IN   SCENTS 

FROM    MALLARME 

WHAT  silk  in  scents  of  centuries 
Where  the  Chimera  is  subdued 
Is  worth  the  shape  and  native  nude 
That  you  outside  your  mirror  ease  ? 

The  wounds  of  banners  eloquent 
Exalt  along  the  thoroughfare : 
But  I  —  I  have  your  naked  hair 
For  covering  my  eyes  content. 

Ah  no !  the  mouth  may  not  be  sure 

To  taste  of  that  which  makes  it  fond, 

Till  he,  your  princely  paramour, 

Extinguish,  like  a  diamond, 

In  the  considerable  tangles 

The  cry  of  Glories  that  he  strangles. 


MUSETTE 

FROM    MURGER 

SEEING  a  swallow  yesterday 
Bringing  the  year  into  its  prime, 
I  was  reminded  of  the  fay 
Who  loved  me  when  she  had  the  time ; 
And  even  till  the  night  drew  near 
In  revery  I  bowed  above 
The  almanack  of  that  old  year 
When  she  and  I  were  so  in  love. 

Ah,  no,  my  youth  is  not  dead  yet, 

Not  dead  my  memory  of  you  ! 

If  at  my  door  you  knocked,  Musette, 

My  heart  would  open  and  draw  you  through. 

Because  your  name  still  makes  it  beat, 

O  Muse  of  infidelity, 

Come  back  that  we  again  may  eat 

The  blessed  bread  of  gaiety. 

[     '06     ] 


The  things  about  our  little  room, 
The  olden  friends  of  our  amour, 
Just  in  the  hope  that  you  may  come 
Put  on  again  a  gay  allure. 
Come,  you  will  see  them  all,  my  lass, 
Mourning  because  you  left  them  there, 
The  little  bed  and  the  big  glass, 
From  which  you  often  drank  my  share. 

You  should  put  on  your  white  array, 
Exactly  as  of  yore  you  should, 
And  as  of  yore  the  Sabbath  day 
We  'd  go  to  run  about  the  wood ; 
And  in  a  bower  at  evening 
We  M  drink  again  that  vintage  light 
Wherein  your  song  would  dip  a  wing 
Before  it  soared  into  the  night. 

Musette,  who  at  the  last  had  learned 
The  carnival  had  sunk  to  rest, 
Upon  a  pleasant  morn  returned, 
Migrating  bird,  to  the  old  nest ; 
But  even  in  kissing  the  coquette, 
No  longer  did  my  heart  beat  high, 
[     107     ] 


And  she,  who  is  no  more  Musette, 
Said  that  I  was  no  longer  I. 

Adieu,  now  go  your  ways,  my  dear, 
Dead  with  the  love  that  is  no  more ; 
Our  youth  is  in  its  sepulchre 
Beneath  the  almanack  of  yore. 
JT  is  only  now  by  digging  through 
The  dust  of  days  that  in  it  lies 
A  memory  may  find  anew 
The  key  of  the  lost  paradise. 


[     '08     ] 


AFTER   THREE   YEARS 

FROM    VERLAINE 

WHEN  I  had  pushed  the  narrow  gate  that  hung  ajar, 
I  made  my  way  into  the  little  garden  close, 
Whereover  quietly  the  morning  sunshine  glows, 
Jeweling  every  blossom  with  a  watery  star. 

Nothing  has  changed.  I  see  it  all :  the  unpretending 
Bower  with  the  vine  grown  wild  and  wicker  chairs  around, 
Always  the  jet  of  water  makes  its  silver  sound, 
And  the  old  aspen  tree  its  threnody  unending. 

The  roses  as  of  yore  are  throbbing ;  as  of  yore 
The  great  proud  lilies  in  the  breeze  are  bending  o'er. 
I  recollect  each  lark  that  in  and  out  is  sailing. 

Even  the  Velleda,  I  find,  is  standing  yet, 

Down  at  the  alley's  end,  with  all  its  plaster  scaling, 

—  Thin,  in  the  sickening  perfume  of  the  mignonette. 


[     I09     ] 


NEVERMORE 

FROM    VERLAINE 

MEMORY,  Memory,  what  would'st  thou  have  ?   The  fall 

Has  put  the  thrush  to  flight  across  the  fatal  air, 

The  while  the  sun  is  darting  a  monotonous  glare 

On  yellowing  woods  that  thunder  with  a  northern  squall. 

We  were  alone  and  in  a  dream  we  walked  away, 

Just  she  and  I  together,  with  hair  and  thought  blown  free. 

Suddenly  uttered,  with  her  thrilling  gaze  on  me, 

Her  voice  of  living  gold  :  "  What  was  thy  happiest  day  ? "  — 

Fresh  and  angelical,  her  ringing  voice  and  sweet ! 
I  let  her  have  her  answer  in  a  smile  discreet, 
And  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  white  hand,  devotedly. 

Ah,  the  first  flowers  of  all,  how  good  they  are  to  smell ! 
And  sounds  with  what  a  murmur  of  felicity 
The  u  yes  "  that  is  the  first  from  lips  adorable. 


1 10 


MY   FAMILIAR   DREAM 

FROM    VERLAINE 

OFTEN  I  have  a  vision  strange  and  close 
Of  an  Unknown  I  love  and  who  loves  me, 
And  who  is  never  the  same,  nor  utterly 
Another,  and  me  she  loves  and  me  she  knows. 

She  knows  me,  and  my  heart,  alas,  that  clears 
For  her  alone,  is  not  a  problem  now 
For  her  alone,  and  my  pale  sweating  brow 
Can  she  alone  of  all  refresh,  in  tears. 

Is  she  blonde,  auburn,  dark  ?  I  cannot  say. 
Her  name  ?  I  know  that  it  is  soft  and  splendid, 
As  of  the  loves  that  Life  has  driven  away. 

Her  gaze  is  as  the  gaze  of  statuary, 

And  she  has  in  her  voice,  grave,  distant,  airy, 

The  cadence  of  dear  voices  that  have  ended. 


LANGUOR 

FROM    VERLAINE 

I  AM  the  Empire  at  the  end  of  the  Decline, 
Who  watch  the  marching  of  the  tall  barbarians  white, 
The  while  I  am  composing  some  acrostics  slight, 
All  in  the  golden  style  adance  with  tired  sunshine. 

My  soul  is  sick  at  heart  with  an  ennui  supine. 
Far  off  they  tell  of  many  a  long  and  bloody  fight. 
O  lack  of  power,  being  so  weak  for  vows  so  light, 
O  lack  of  will  to  use  awhile  this  life  of  mine  ! 

O  lack  of  will,  O  lack  of  power  to  die  awhile  ! 
Ah,  all  is  drunk  !   Bathyllus,  wilt  thou  always  smile  ? 
Ah,  all  is  drunk,  all  eaten !  There  's  no  more  to  say  ! 

Only,  a  bit  of  verse  too  trivial  that  you  burn, 

Only,  a  slave  neglecting  you  a  bit  to  stray, 

Only,  an  ennui,  who  knows  what,  that  makes  you  mourn ! 


OH    HEAVY,  HEAVY    WAS    MY   MIND 

FROM    VERLAINE 

OH  heavy,  heavy  was  my  mind, 
Because,  because  of  womankind. 

I  never  could  be  comforted, 

Far  off  although  my  heart  had  fled. 

Although  my  mind,  although  my  heart 
Far  from  the  woman  kept  apart. 

I  never  could  be  comforted, 

Far  off  although  my  heart  had  fled. 

My  heart,  my  heart  in  very  ruth 
Said  to  my  mind  :  "  Is  it  the  truth, 

Is  it  the  truth  —  or  has  it  been  — 
This  exile  proud,  this  exile  keen  ? " 

[     "3     ] 


My  mind  said  to  my  heart :  "  Do  I 
Myself  make  out  this  mystery 

Of  exiles  who  remain  at  home, 
However  far  away  they  roam  ?  " 


[     "4    ] 


CYDALISES 

FROM    GERARD    DE    NERVAL 

WHERE  are  our  mistresses  ? 
They  are  within  the  tomb  ! 
They  have  more  happiness 
Within  a  lovelier  home ! 

They  with  the  seraphim 
Are  deep  in  the  blue  sky, 
And  with  their  praises  hymn 
The  mother  of  the  Most  High  ! 

O  virgin  in  first  flower, 
O  snow-white  bride  to  be, 
Love-woman  for  an  hour, 
To  fade  in  misery, 

Eternity  profound 

Was  smiling  in  your  eyes  ! 

Lights  that  the  world  has  drowned, 

Rekindle  in  the  skies ! 

[     "5     ] 


DELPHICA 

FROM    GERARD    DE    NERVAL 

DAPHNE,  do  you  remember  this  old  strain, 
Under  the  sycamore  or  laurel  white, 
Or  olives,  myrtles,  or  blown  willows  light, 
This  song  of  love  .  .  .  that  always  starts  again  ? 

Do  you  remember  the  great  columned  fane, 
The  bitter  citrons  that  you  still  would  bite, 
The  cavern,  death  to  many  a  wreckless  wight, 
Where  sleep  old  offspring  of  the  dragon  slain  ? 

They  will  return,  these  gods  you  weep  always  ! 
Time  will  bring  back  the  reign  of  ancient  days ; 
The  earth  has  quivered  with  the  breath  immortal  .  .  , 

And  yet  the  sibyl  of  the  Roman  mien 

Sleeps  still  beneath  the  arch  of  Constantine  : 

—  And  nothing  has  disturbed  that  haughty  portal, 


MIGNON'S  SONG 

FROM    GOETHE 

KNOWEST  thou  the  country  where  the  citrons  bloom  ? 

Gold  oranges  light  up  the  leafy  gloom, 

Indolent  wind  is  in  the  azure  skies, 

The  myrtle  still  and  high  the  laurel  rise. 

Dost  thou  remember  ?  Thither,  thither, 

I  would,  Beloved,  we  might  go  together. 

Knowest  thou  the  mansion  with  the  columned  walls  ? 
The  laughter  of  the  light  is  in  its  halls, 
And  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  at  me : 
"Unhappy  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee  ?" 
Dost  thou  remember  ?  Thither,  thither, 
I  would,  my  saviour,  we  might  go  together. 


t     "7     ] 


Knowest  thou  the  mountain  and  its  cloudy  tryst  ? 
The  mule  seeks  out  the  way  amid  the  mist, 
The  dragon's  ancient  brood  is  in  the  cave, 
Plunges  the  cliff,  and  over  it  the  wave. 
Dost  thou  remember  ?  Thither,  thither 
Our  way !   O  Father,  let  us  go  together ! 


SONG 

FROM    HEINE 

HE  was  an  olden  monarch, 
Hoary  of  hair,  his  heart  had  died. 
The  lonely  olden  monarch 
Married  a  maiden  bride. 

He  was  a  page  in  Maytime, 
Yellow  his  hair,  glad  was  his  mien. 
He  bore  the  silken  trailing 
Train  of  the  maiden  queen. 

Knowest  thou  the  olden  ditty, 
So  full  of  sweet,  so  full  of  woe  ? 
They  had  to  die  together, 
They  loved  each  other  so. 


TO   ZANTE 

FROM    UGO    FOSCOLO 

NE'ER  shall  I  reach  again  the  shores  divine 

Where  was  delivered  my  body  young, 

O  Zante,  who  dost  in  the  surges  shine 

Of  the  Greek  sea,  from  which  was  Venus  sprung 

Virgin,  and  filled  those  isles  with  flower  and  vine 

At  her  first  smile,  whence  is  there  still  a  tongue 

For  thy  clear  clouds  and  all  those  boughs  of  thine 

In  the  immortal  verse  of  him  who  sung 

The  fatal  waters  and  the  exile  strange, 

From  which,  made  fair  with  fame  and  bitter  change, 

Ulysses  kissed  his  rocky  Ithaca. 

Thou  of  thy  son  shalt  have  the  song  alone, 

O  mother  land  of  mine :  the  fates  withdraw 

From  us  the  grave  that  thou  might'st  weep  upon. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   BROTHER 

FROM    UGO    FOSCOLO 

SOME  day,  if  I  go  not  forever  flying 
From  people  to  people,  thou  shalt  see  me  come 
Upon  thy  grave,  O  thou  my  brother,  sighing 
Of  thy  so  gentle  years  the  fallen  bloom. 
Our  mother,  now  alone  to  her  night  nighing, 
Speaks  about  me  unto  thine  ashes  dumb ; 
But  with  wild  hands  to  reach  you  I  am  trying, 
And  lonely  from  afar  salute  my  home. 
I  know  the  hostile  Fates  and  unconfessed 
Cares  that  were  in  thy  life  tempestuously, 
And  at  thy  portal  pray  I  too  for  rest. 
This  out  of  so  much  hope  to-day  is  left ! 
O  strangers,  yield  at  least  the  bones  of  me 
Unto  the  bosom  of  the  mother  reft. 


ftiterpibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

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